Running on Empty
by Silken Thorn
Summary: Post Mockingjay AU. Katniss ran away from Peeta and her home after the rebellion without a trace, she built a successful life in District 2 and never looked back. One day Peeta just stopped looking for her. But fate has a sneaky way of coming around when you least expect it and the two are brought together again to work as partners. Can they fix what was broken 15 years ago?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Hi there! So this is the first chapter of my AU Everlark fic – I hope you enjoy it! This will be written in both Katniss's and Peeta's POV at various points, but this chapter is pure Everdeen! Please review! :)

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**Katniss**

I had no idea at the time that a typical, somewhat sunny, somewhat cloudy Monday morning was the beginning of the week that would throw my well-crafted life into pandemonium.

Yes, I said well-crafted and that is the best adjective I can think of to describe my life from the end of the rebellion up to this point.

My name is Katniss Everdeen.

I am 33 years of age, although I could probably pass for 29 if I dabbed a bit of extra concealer under my eyes in a morning, 27 at a push if I wore my long, dark hair in any style other than a slicked back ponytail that does nothing to hide the frown lines beginning to form between my brows.

My home is District 2. I came from District 12 once, but what can be described in summary as 'bad things' happened there and their ghosts haunted me until I decided to leave them once and for all. I now live and work in District 2, at a prestigious University specialising in the development of industrial management and data systems. I don't know the first thing about industrial management or data systems, but it appears I'm very good with organisation and strategy, and when you're the programme manager for one of the biggest data systems pilot research studies in all of Panem, PODSII, you don't actually need to understand the substance all that much. I leave that to the brains, like Beetee.

I used to have a Sister, a Mother, a Father, and a Best Friend. I don't have those people anymore. I have my duplex apartment overlooking the lake and District Park, a mere 10 minute commute from the University, and a pager.

I was in the Hunger Games when I was younger. I was reaped a second time into the Third Quarter Quell. I was the Mockingjay in the rebellion. I was once in love with a boy but I never told him that. It worked out for the best, I'm sure of it. I imagine you wonder why I don't expand on these relatively major events, namely because I'm not sure I could rustle the details from the depths of my memory. These are the 'bad things' I just told you about. I don't like thinking about them all too often.

Most people would probably describe me as a workaholic, and I guess I can see why. I've been sat at my desk here (it's a gorgeous desk in a gorgeous office – all minimalist and advanced – and yes, I do have my own office. I find I work best in solitude) since just before 7 this morning and I probably won't leave until past 7 this evening. Most mornings I start at this time, sometimes though I start earlier, with the help of a strong cup of steaming coffee. These earlier starts are normally when I've had a restless night plagued with flashbacks and nightmares beforehand. I find that getting myself on to the first tram of the morning when it's still dark and silent outside is therapeutic and calming.

"Ms Everdeen, your 10 o'clock appointment is here" calls my secretary from the doorway to my office and I start suddenly, snapped out of my daydream. I mentally kick myself in the foot. I was in the process of organising paperwork for my 10 o'clock when I drifted off, and the man I am meeting just happens to be one of the major private funders of my programme. I smile at my secretary.

"Thank you Sarah, please can you ask him if he would like a drink and let him know that I'll be out shortly?" I sneak a look at the small clock in the bottom right hand corner of my computer screen. 9.55. Brilliant – 5 minutes is more than enough to get these statistics together.

In truth I never really saw my life turning out like this at any point, even before the rebellion. Office jobs were few and far between in my district, and even if they were in abundance the thought of being confined within 4 walls for 8 hours a day would have driven the old Katniss mad. I would have probably been happy living a peasant lifestyle just for the ability to spend my time in the forests, hunting squirrels and game with G…with gusto and just being 'out there'. I suppose having been 'out there' in two Games arenas really changes your perspectives on things…I haven't even touched a bow and arrow in over 15 years.

I stand up from my chair and smooth down the front of my grey knee-length pencil skirt, reaching behind me and 'tucking in the tail' of my fitted white blouse as I used to do for someone else. I find it was tucked in already. Old habits certainly do die hard.

"Mr Felspar," I say brightly, holding out my hand to the middle-aged investor who rises from his own chair in response to my greeting. I take his hand and shake it firmly, initiating the proceedings with control as I wish to conduct them, a wide, sincere smile never leaving my face. "Have you been offered a drink?"

"Yes, I have, thank you Ms Everdeen," he replies, gesturing to the cup of coffee in one hand. I look down – our posh mugs with the University crest and that tell-tale smell of freshly ground coffee lovingly percolated by a secretary who, at times, I love as though she were my own flesh and blood. I shoot a conspiratorial wink at Sarah as I usher Mr Felspar into my office and she grins back with a matching wink. "Now, Mr Felspar, let's talk business…"

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I kick off my black court shoes as I step through the door of my apartment after a particularly successful day. I glance at my watch, 8.30pm. A little later than I was hoping for but generally as long as I'm home before 9 I'm happy with myself. I hang up my coat and pad through to my bedroom wearily, scratching the head of the old cat who really should be dead by now according to the laws of nature, who is currently sprawled out over the comforter on the end of my bed, obviously having had a particularly hard day of doing shit all but sleep and eat.

"Hey, Buttercup."

The cat opens a murky yellow eye and meets my eyeline lazily, giving an attempt at half a purr before closing the eye again, obviously having decided that as I wasn't bearing any kind of meaty gift I wasn't worth the effort this evening. I make a gentle 'tsk' with my tongue and reach down to stroke the yellow-y, ginger-y fluff. Buttercup and I have this bizarre relationship – sour at first due to my attempt to kill him in a bucket but then after we both lost everything we developed this camaraderie and now…as much as I hate to admit it I would be lost without this cat.

"Shall we go and see what's for dinner?" I make conversation, though I answered the question in my own mind before I asked it. '_Pasta for one' _I think ruefully, though I would never complain. The fact that I can make myself dinner is a far cry from where I used to be. I open my refrigerator and pull out a bottle of juice, snapping it open and taking a long drink as my eyes flitter over the various ready-made TV dinners lining the shelves. Pop, pop, ping. Just how I like it.

"Looks like I'm on beef cannelloni tonight boy, and you are on grade A cat food," I say to the cat who has followed me into the kitchen at the promise of dinner. Tipping cat biscuits into a bowl, I put it down on the hardwood floor before popping my own black tray of nutrition-less crap in the microwave.

My apartment matches my meals. Small but big enough for me and the cat, functional, minimalist like my office. Everything is clean, shiny silver surfaces everywhere, modern trappings of convenience lining the walls to make my already privileged life that bit easier. It helps that I have very few possessions with which to clutter the place up. It isn't a palace by any means, but it's my flat. I wouldn't call it home. Home implies some kind of heartiness, something comfortable, somewhere safe. I don't feel any of these things here, but then that isn't the fault of the apartment. I haven't felt 'home' since before the Reaping all those years ago.

At the first thought of the past I shake my head as a dog would clear his ears of water and switch on the television set built in to the spotless white wall to catch up with the day's news. This is one of the reasons I work so hard and for so many hours, I find it difficult to think about much else when I'm preoccupied with my job.

The comforting sound of Panem News 24 fills the apartment and I instantly feel myself move out of my own head. Living alone can get tough when the memories threaten to come back, but there's not much I can do about it other than make sure there is noise in the apartment and that I'm busy. To this end I settle myself cross-legged on my light grey L-shaped couch and pull my briefcase across to my lap. I pull out my laptop and press it on, staring out of the ceiling to floor window opposite me.

The park looks beautiful at sunset. This is one of the reasons, in fact the main reason, that I pay what is probably a ridiculous amount for this small apartment. The densely packed trees break here and there to signpost a path snaking through the vegetation, paths that I run on whenever I get a spare hour. Going for a run in the morning would be great, but there's easily a 50% chance that I will flush that resolution down the toilet on waking up tomorrow. The soft, burnt orange sunset glimmers on the surface of the lake, so strong that it casts a dim light in to the room, the shimmering ochre seizing my attention and refusing to let up until a series of sharp beeps from the computer in her lap alerts me to several e-mails that had just landed in my inbox.

_'Schedule – tomorrow, Tuesday 2__nd__ May – Sarah Squire'_

I smiled to myself. Sarah knows me well enough to know that an e-mail sent at this time of night would be picked up in time to run me through my schedule for the next day. As usual I don't know whether to be impressed by how observant she is or saddened by the state of my own life. I bet Sarah has sent this e-mail and then will get on with her evening for herself, she won't be working until the moment she goes to sleep.

Sarah insists on sending through these e-mails every evening, although those detailed breakdowns of each appointment in my diary leave any room for further clarification. No wonder her references were so gushing when I employed her...

_Hi Katniss,_

_Please find below your schedule for tomorrow – quite an open one tomorrow, so you should find time to work on that report that's due in at the end of the week! I've also left Thursday completely open, as requested. _

_9am – meeting with external consultant for PODSII – Tomas didn't pass on any information before he went on leave I'm sorry so I don't even know the person's name! All I know is that they'll be here at 9. _

_12pm – executive lunch with Vice Chancellor. _

_3pm – PODSII team meeting – I have attached a brief plenary here, but it's more of a catch-up with the team and you don't need to prepare anything in advance._

_Have a good evening, see you in the morning._

_Sarah._

Oh, the exec lunch. I'd forgotten about that, I realise with a slight face-palm moment. A meeting with the Vice Chancellor of the University, Chief Accountant, Research Support Manager and a couple of other senior management bods all involved in PODSII. It's something that I would feel a bit nervous about ordinarily, but it just so happens that my meeting with Mr Felspar today had really hammered out any remaining hiccups with the set-up of PODSII and I'd come away with some significant extra funding secured that I couldn't wait to brag about. Mr Felspar was a notorious tight-ass, and getting extra funds out of his statistical analysis corporation is like drawing blood from a stone. I can almost imagine the face of Elsie Temper, the Research Support Manager for my department, when I tell her that that projected minuscule, inconsequential overspend that she'd thrown up such a fuss about last week was no longer an issue.

I focus again on my first appointment, 9am, external consultant..? My brows knit together for a moment in contemplation before I remember with a breathy 'oh', of course, the project management consultant that we'd brought on board last week. I say we, I mean my Deputy-Manager Tomas who manages casual recruitment matters. As Tomas conveniently decided this week would be a good one to take as annual leave I am stuck meeting this person whose name I don't even know. With a small 'tut' I hear an impatient beep from the microwave and realise that my cannelloni has been waiting for me for the past 15 minutes. Oops. I'll eat this, draft a few e-mails, perhaps knock up something for the team meeting tomorrow and get some much needed shut-eye.

As though in agreement with my thoughts, Buttercup jumps up on to the arm of my sofa, gives her left paw a lazy lick before mewling gently and flopping to her belly, eyes closed. The picture of relaxation.

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It's 5.34am and I'm on the first tram out to the University. Last night was a bad night for the terrors and I feel physically and emotionally exhausted, just the state I wanted to go into today in. I felt relatively good when I went to bed, too, I'd written a decent team brief to deliver this afternoon and a few points that I wanted to raise at the PODSII exec lunch, it had been a productive evening. Even the cannelloni had been better than I expected. So I was surprised when I'd woken twice during the night, the first time to the horror of my sister screaming in agony, flames twisting across her body, distorting her skin until she looked like a melted wax sculpture, small hands reaching out to me desperately, seeking help she would never get. A tall boy with bronze hair cackles evilly in the background, enjoying the torture. The second nightmare was less graphic but no less terrifying. I was stood in a meadow with a stocky boy with mussy, curly blond hair. He's got his back to me, the breeze is playing through his hair and he's so beautiful I can barely breathe. Then he looks at me, those blue eyes burn into mine and suddenly I'm writhing in agony in the grass, clutching at my chest, trying to stop the burning, oh the burning...then it's over, and I wake up, soaked in sweat all twisted up in my bedsheets.

I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand. I'm currently dressed in my poshest knee-length navy crepe shift dress that cost me a week's salary when I first started working in the department. I even shaved my legs in preparation for the lunch this afternoon, wearing my black stilettos that make a satisfying, attention-grabbing 'click'ing noise when I walk down a corridor. From the neck down I look smart, from the neck up I need some serious work. Luckily I have almost 4 hours until my first meeting...wow, that's a depressing thought.

I swipe myself in to the building and instantly a smile cracks my face as I see the doorman at the desk.

"Hey, Otis."

"Why Miss Everdeen!" greets Otis, an ageing security guard who takes the night shifts, regularly meeting me at this time of the morning. "Another early start, child?"

"Unfortunately so, lots to do and not enough hours in the day! How are you? How's Lavinia's bronchitis?" I ask, enquiring about Otis's wife whose illness has been getting progressively worse the past few times I've spoken to him. Despite only knowing him for a couple of years, only seeing him in passing, I've grown attached to him and his family. Otis's face falls slightly before he catches himself and shrugs slightly.

"Same as ever, I'm afraid. She's in the hospital today, in fact, just a regular check-up. Thanks for asking. When she's feeling a bit brighter she'll make you another batch of sugar cookies, I know how you like them!" I laugh, nodding my head eagerly. I'd been waiting for this. Lavinia's sugar cookies are something else entirely.

"If I can put in a request can I go for a batch of the little woodland creature ones? Especially the little rabbits, I love the little rabbits." Otis laughs and claps his hands together, nodding vigorously.

"Of course, of course! She'll be more than happy to oblige, I'm sure."

"Oh, well that has most certainly brightened my day and given me something to look forward to. You look after yourself, Otis, and wish Lavinia the best from me. Hope her hospital appointment goes well."

I squeeze Otis's shoulder with a smile before making my way over to the lifts, pressing the button for the 6th floor and looking at my tired face in the unforgiving mirror. I hate lift mirrors. There's something about the lighting that just makes everything look a million times worse. Those flyaway hairs look almost silver in this luminescence, and I look beyond washed out with deep shadows under my eyes betraying my exhaustion. I sigh deeply and make my way out of the lift to my office, sitting behind my desk and pulling out my make-up case. Time to get to work.

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"Good morning, Katniss!"

I jump and look up from my computer screen, looking over at the door where Sarah is stood with a freshly made cup of something hot. As she comes toward me I can smell the rich aroma of coffee, beautiful, freshly ground, piping hot coffee. I moan slightly and reach out both hands toward her imploringly, opening and closing my hands as a child would when beckoning for something. Sarah smiles and hands the cup across the desk. I take a deep slurp, I don't care that I actually slurp, it's completely worth it. I smack my lips together and nod appreciatively.

"God, you are good, Sarah. I knew I was drawn to you in interviews for a reason! Maybe we ought to make coffee making part of future interviews...in any case, what time is it?"

"It's 10 to 9, your 9am is already here, I just thought I'd better give you some time and some caffeine to prepare you."

"You are very thoughtful, and completely right," I set the coffee cup down and pick up a compact mirror. I've managed to make myself look like I got a decent amount of sleep last night. As much as I hate wearing make-up, the one thing I found out as soon as I started working here was that make-up was a pre-requisite. Double standards would have seriously rankled the old Katniss, but here it's just par for the course. New Katniss spends $50 on a pot of cover-up.

"I'll send him in," says Sarah with a smile, walking out of the office and I stand up, smoothing down the front of my dress and examining the toe of my shoe with a sinking feeling. The black leather was unmistakeably scuffed – when did that happen? I'm sure that wasn't there this morning...I curse under my breath. I'm so caught up that I don't hear the footsteps enter the room until I hear a sharp intake of breath. My head snaps up rapidly and I involuntarily step backwards, the backs of my legs hitting the edge of my desk as my hand flies up to cover my mouth.

A pair of bright blue eyes stare back at me, equally as wide and as shocked as my own.

"P..._Peeta?_"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay with updating! I've been on a very long vacation and didn't get the chance to write, much less to post! But I hope this will make up for the delay

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**Peeta**

District 2 is - daunting would probably be the wrong adjective given that I've survived 2 Hunger Games, but it's the closest term that's coming to mind right now – daunting. It's big, so damn big. District 12 was big but it wasn't full. That's it, District 2 is just so _full._ Sometimes it feels as though there isn't enough oxygen in the air to sustain the swarms of people who are just _everywhere._ It's a bit of an adjustment when you come from a small bakery in a small town centre in a huge district that is just full of grey fields, mud, trees and not much else. But, this is where I am now and I've been looking forward to this job for weeks, I'm going to make the most of it – the typical sunshine outlook of Peeta Mellark, I think in an ironically dark tone.

Rush hour. The morning commute. It's madness, and it's going to take some serious getting used to. I've always thought of myself as a people-person, I've never really been one for solitude and my own company, but this is just too far the other way. And people are so cold out here. Back in District 12 people had nothing, people starved, people struggled just to keep a roof over their head but they always greeted you in the streets, there was always a conversation to be had and enquiries to be made over your health. Here people just don't care. It's almost as though everyone lives in their own little bubble, head down, plugged in to the work mainframe before they even get into the office. Inspiration strikes me suddenly, a canvas depicting the rush hour scramble on to the tram, faces of hurried commuters in their beige and black raincoats drawn tensely, clutching their briefcases, newspapers and umbrellas as though life depended on it. But each commuter would be in a sheer bubble, like an inflated cling-film wrapping, an invisible barrier made visible.

I miraculously find myself a seat on the tram and find myself reflecting on the events leading me to this point.

_"Where is she, Haymitch?" I practically shout at the drunk slumped across the sofa, feeling this bizarre sensation of weightless panic. I feel as though I'm about to float through the sky at any moment, save for this roiling, churning anxiety in the pit of my stomach keeping me rooted to the earth. Haymitch grunts and pushes himself into a sitting position, shooting me a glare._

_"Cool it, kid, it's first thing on a god-damn Sunday morning and you ought to know by now that this is my quiet time. You know as well as I do where she is. She's gone." I growl and pace across the room by the window, trying to calm my own rasping breathing, of course she's gone. I worked my ass off for months trying to get better for her, to be there for her, to help her and she's already pissed off. I feel the scratching at the back of my brain, the whispers beginning again, everything threatens to go shiny until I sit on the corner of a table and pinch the back of my hand, hard. The sensation brings me back to myself. I look up at Haymitch._

_"Do you know where she is?" I ask fruitlessly. I know the answer._

_"Of course not. Did you really expect her to tell me? All I know is that Greasy Sae made her usual morning trip across to make sure she was still alive and she wasn't there, no note or nothing. Sae came over here hollering and woke me up. Everything was gone, even that damn cat. But you saw that when you went over there earlier, didn't you?" Haymitch made a short 'tsk' noise in the back of his throat and shook his head. "You need to move on, get on with your life." He reaches to the floor and picks up a glass of amber liquid, that he drains in one. I know where this is going, and I don't want to see it right now, so I turn to leave. "We all do," I hear him say just before the door closes behind me._

_I blink back the hot tears that are threatening to leak out through my lids. _

_She's gone. I should have expected it, should have prepared myself for it more than I did. _

_I close my eyes and feel the breeze play through my hair, feel the cool air against my cheeks and I let it bathe me in numbness for what feels like an eternity. _

_Katniss gave me a purpose. After what the Capitol did to me, after what they turned me in to, I always knew deep, deep in the recesses of my mind that she was my purpose, she was my morning and evening star. I hated myself for it, I hated her for it, but now I just hate them for it. I can't hate her, I've hated her for too long and it's as unnatural to me as holding one's breath under water, and equally as exhausting._

_Making my way back to my own house I think. Peeta always has a plan. When the rebellion was over, I had a plan, a project of self-improvement to get myself better to get myself home to Katniss. It gave me focus, helped me through the pain of recovery. I need a plan now, a plan will give me something to hold on to, a life line in the sea of nihilism currently threatening to sweep me away._

_A plan to get me back to my shore, to her._

It turned out to be difficult to plan my way back to Katniss when she'd vanished off the face of the earth. Months passed where I interrogated my district neighbours, sitting around a table with Haymitch (on his more sober days) and Greasy Sae, trying to uncover any kind of clue, any hint as to where she might be. But Katniss was, of course, very thorough. No mail arrived at her abandoned Victor's house, there was nothing left there, no-one came passing through looking for her. Even Effie didn't have a clue where she was. I was never cut out for detective work, it turned out, and I never found anything out. The one clue we had, the one lead, was that she had emptied her Victor's bank account about a week before I returned, and that didn't really tell us anything other than indicating that she wasn't planning on coming back. The one thing we did already know.

I reach my stop and make my way off the tram, my musings having taken me to a somewhat depressing place. I had given up, and I was ashamed to admit it after everything that had happened and all the promises I had made to Katniss. It was clear, though, that she didn't want these promises. That she didn't want me. Did she ever? I wasn't sure, and thinking about it did nothing but harm.

So I moved on with my life as best as I could. I rebuilt the bakery in the heart of District 12 and I found a new love in project management, something that I could really make into a career for myself, a break away from the pain that District 12 held for me. My original plan was, of course, to build the bakery and live there and run it myself, but I couldn't stand in that kitchen for too long without feeling as though my skin were going to crawl off my bones. The first time I ever tried to make a cheese bun I ended up in a hijacking episode that lasted for 48 hours. Running the bakery wasn't a feasible plan if I wanted to maintain my sanity, which I did, and so I employed a manager and a couple of apprentices who run the place on a day to day basis. I still own the bakery, I would never give that up, but it now serves someone else's dreams and home. Which is, you know, good. I'm glad that I built something that will be a life for a family in the District but I can't escape those images, the happy videos that used to play during some of the darkest moments where I would be sharing a life at the bakery with my own family.

"Hi there, Peeta Mellark, here for a 9 o'clock meeting with Tomas Hann," I say to the Receptionist on the 6th floor, taking off my jacket and passing it to her as she holds her hand out.

"Hello, Mr Mellark. Unfortunately Mr Hann is on annual leave this week, so you will be meeting with Ms Everdeen, the Programme Manager. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while you wait…Mr Mellark, are you ok?"

I can hear her speaking, but I suddenly feel as though the floor has fallen away from my feet. I look at her and she looks nervously at my expression – I can't even imagine how I must look at the moment.

It can't be her, it just can't. There's no way.

"Y, yes please. Coffee with milk and one, thank you," I stumble over my words, sinking down into a plush chair as the receptionist makes her way into what I assume is a kitchen.

It's a coincidence.

No, Everdeen is not a common name but there must be other Everdeens out there. Perhaps Katniss had an uncle, or an aunt, or multiple uncles and aunts who settled in District 2. I nod to myself and calm down my suddenly erratic breathing.

I hadn't reacted how I expected I would to a moment like this. I thought if I ever had the chance to find her I would feel relieved, I would be ready to scoop her up in my arms and never let her go, even if she fought it. All I want to do is get my coat and leave. Time changes things, that's for sure.

"Here you are, Mr Mellark. I'll let Ms Everdeen know that you've arrived." All I can do is nod as the receptionist puts the coffee down in front of me and walks past me with a second steaming cup to the furthest office door, which is open, and going in.

I would pick up the cup, but my hands are shaking a bit.

I take a deep breath, calm myself and lift my cup. I focus on the rim of the mug, steadying my hands.

"Ms Everdeen is ready for you, Mr Mellark."

I inhale deeply once more.

I stand up and nod at the receptionist. I don't attempt a smile.

I walk across the floor, cup of coffee in hand, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other until I reach the doorway.

I inhale. I exhale. I inhale again and step over the threshold.

I slowly look up, and she isn't looking at me. She's looking at something on her shoe. But I recognise her, everything about her. I can't help the gasp that escapes from my mouth.

That gets her attention.

I can't read her, as usual, until she takes a sharp step backwards, bumps into her own desk, and covers her mouth with her fingertips. Her silver eyes are wide, shining…afraid?

"P…_Peeta?_" she gasps.

I don't know what to say.

"Hi, Katniss."

* * *

**Katniss**

It's not…it can't be.

This isn't happening.

He can't be here. He doesn't know I'm here. I didn't leave any hint of where I was going.

"What are you…how did you find me?" I ask finally, after what feels like an age, stammering over my words and feeling irritated at myself for it, for being on the back foot, in my own office, the centrepiece of my life. Peeta always did have me on the hop.

A flash of annoyance passes over his face, and it's good to see an emotion other than shock, good that one of us has broken this stalemate.

"I wasn't looking for you," he stated simply, smoothing down his tie and looking uncomfortable, "I'm the external consultant that Tomas hired, though I assume you know this, you were expecting me."

"I didn't know it was you," I blurt out. I don't know what to think. 15 years has treated him well, he looks smart in his dark grey business formal, his black shoes shined, his blonde hair cropped neatly at the sides with that signature Peeta mussed-up curl at the top. His eyes, the one unchanging, static thing in this crazy world. They burn in to me and suddenly I feel short of air. I have to sit down.

I make my way back to the other side of my desk, all rules of business etiquette forgotten. Sitting down I run my fingertips across the cool wood of my desk, looking down the whole time just because I _can't bear _to see that expression in his eyes. Peeta was never lost over anything, I can't see my own helplessness in him.

Oh, why doesn't he just make some wise crack? Or at least shout at me?

The silence is deafening and it's getting longer. He's not moved, he's still stood there, watching me although the expression on his face says that he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. I feel a slight pang – that's the expression of someone who has moved on.

_Which is what you wanted when you left, right? When you left without a backwards glance, without a second thought? _My subconscious mind digs and I bite my lip to stop myself from screaming back. I had second thoughts, and third, and fourth, and many more but it was the right thing to do.

His being here is taking me back to that god awful day and I don't want to feel that again. I can't. It's been so long, it would literally kill me.

"So, you're interested in project management now?" I ask, finally bringing my eyes up to his. I gesture to a chair across from me, all business and polite. He raises one brow slightly but takes the seat, putting his coffee mug down on a coaster.

"Yes. Having built the bakery up from scratch, I found that I enjoyed the process of management more than the baking itself and decided on a change of career." There's no tone in his voice. This is threatening to ruin me.

"You rebuilt the bakery?" I find myself whispering and his face softens momentarily before hardening once more. He nods once, but offers no expansion. I swallow deeply, blinking back moisture from my eyes before exhaling, a shaky breath. "But you don't work there, you aren't a baker anymore…"

"I don't think this is a good idea," he interjects before I can say anything further. I close my mouth once more and look at him, offering up no opinion. He continues. "I don't think we could work together. Too much has happened for us to even be in contact with one another for 15 years, let alone work together on a daily basis."

"No!" I blurt out suddenly and Peeta looks just as shocked by my outburst as I am. I clear my throat. "Peeta, we're professionals, and I'm sure that we can work together for 6 months on this project. When Tomas is back from leave you'll be liaising with him predominantly anyway, we won't…see each other much. I know Tomas chose you for a reason and it's not right for me to undermine his decision and find a new consultant for this project, this is his area that I delegated to him, I can't do that. I won't do that." I feel my eyes narrow slightly. "We'll just have to make it work and be civil about this."

There's a moment where I think he's going to tell me where to get off, that it's rich for me to be lecturing him on how to be civil, but he must mentally bite his lip because all he does is nod. Then he smiles, but it's a horrible, ironic smile rather than the genuine, eye-sparkling smiles he used to wear.

"This is my first job as a freelance consultant. I'd been so looking forward to this…I should have known," he takes a deep breath then sighs, meeting my eyes without hostility, without anger…without anything, really. "Fine. We'll be professional about this. So this project, can you give me a bit of background? The aims, objectives, the direction, how you see the strategy working out?"

I blink, slightly shocked by first his rapid turn around and secondly by the confirmation of my suspicions. He's perfectly civilised and professional as we discuss the project and the various stages of set-up. He knows his stuff, and he's able to provide an objective, expert approach to looking at how to manage the process. I hadn't considered many of the points that he raises when we talk about the various obstacles that could arise in trying to set up this pilot study. I'd been more concerned with the study itself, and realised that I'd been jumping ahead of myself to the end stages.

As always, Peeta pulls me back to reality and gives me that balanced, measured view of things. I feel something lodge in my throat as I think of how this has always been the way, how he has always been the balance I needed, the water to my fire.

Was. Was always.

"Let me show you what we're working on at the moment…"

An hour later we have papers out on my desk and are making flow charts, mind maps, scribbling things down on large sheets of paper and discussing the whole thing. His strong hand moves fluidly over the paper, connecting two bubbles as he explains the link he's drawing together, his full lips drawing my eyes, a faint smell of his aftershave exciting my subconscious senses from across my desk. I realise that I'm making small noises of assent, but that it sounds like I'm losing concentration, which to tell the truth I am. After getting over the initial shock of seeing Peeta in my office I had sized him up and he is looking really well. He was always handsome, but he's really filled out over the past 15 years. Perhaps it's the hardship, but his face has lost that innocent, untainted look, replaced with harder planes and faint furrows betraying his age and his past. His eyes, however, are unchanged. This realisation brings a nasty prickling to my throat and I cough slightly, tilting my eyes downward and hoping that Peeta doesn't look up to notice the dampness there.

He does. I see the pen he is holding slip slightly as his grasp loosens and I can't bring my eyes up to meet his. The tense silence feels electric, neither of us knowing what to say. I wish I'd been listening to what he'd been saying, at least then I could deflect by making a point.

"I'm sorry…" I say quietly and he is silent.

"Don't be sorry, Katniss," he says finally, his soft voice compassionate. I look up at him and regret it, his face is impassive, not quite aligned to his tone. "It's been a shock for us both. It's going to take some getting used to, but this has been a productive meeting and I'm confident that we can at least work together," he looks at a watch tucked under his cuff and frowns slightly, the lines on his forehead deepening. "I think it's time we call this a day, perhaps. We've got through a lot considering…well, considering everything, and Tomas will be back next week, right?"

I nod quietly and he stands up, pulling down the sleeves of his suit jacket and fiddling slightly with a button. I stand with him and come around my desk, I don't miss how his eyes scan me from my feet upwards and when our eyes connect there's an untaken gasp floating between us, a gasp that neither of us concede to. I smile awkwardly and hold out my hand almost on reflex. He raises a brow quizzically and almost tentatively reaches for my hand.

His fingers touch my palm and my eyes widen. I jolt my hand back as though burned. My entire body feels full of static.

His reaction is similar, he even shakes his head slightly as though trying to rid water from his ears.

"Too soon, perhaps," I whisper, and I'm not even sure he hears until he nods slightly after a moment.

"Perhaps. Well, I'll wait to hear from Tomas until I come in again. I'll see you around, Katniss," he turns to leave, pausing with his hand on the door knob. I feel my hand clench slightly by my leg, part of me hoping that he's going to turn around and come back to me, take me into his arms and not let go and the other part hoping that he just keeps his eyes forward and leaves as planned.

He goes with the latter, and I feel a pang of disappointment that almost translates into tears. I take a moment to compose myself, breathing deeply. Now that he's gone and there's no immediate consequence to my breaking down my brain and body are threatening to crumble in perfect synchronisation. Feeling like a character in a cheesy melodrama I stand up on shaking legs and cross to the window, gripping the sill with white knuckles, taking gasping breaths as fat, rogue teardrops leak out of my eyes.

I stand this way for a while, what feels like an eternity, before taking one final rattling breath and steeling myself, my jaw tense, eyes turning to my desk.

I have a lunch to prepare for. Peeta has obviously moved on with his life, perhaps I need to work a little bit harder to do the same thing.

* * *

**Peeta**

Back in my apartment I feel the choking force return to my throat and I slump to the floor against the wall, sobbing my heart straight out of my mouth. Yeah, perhaps not the most masculine of reactions but since when have I ever been a "man" in that sense?

That did not go how I'd always dreamt it would.

Seeing her, all I could see was the heart break, the disappointment, her empty house, her desertion. I'd probably been a foolish kid back then, thinking that I could ever get over that if only I could find her. Some things just can't be forgotten, nor forgiven, and the way Katniss ran out on me is one of those things. I would have given anything for her, any amount of time she needed, if only she had stayed and given me the chance to be there. But Katniss does as Katniss knows best, and she ran away, decided she didn't want me once and for all and left.

Does she have a boyfriend here? The thought slips into my mind unbidden and I suddenly think of a multitude of reasons why I should leave district 2 right away and give back word. Katniss has a whole life here. She's built up her life over 15 years, a life I have no part of, not do I know anything about. What if I saw Katniss and her boyfriend out for dinner? Or walked into her office to hear her on the phone to him? See her smile reading an e-mail from him, a smile that I so often dreamt of putting on her face myself.

This was a huge mistake.

I feel those voices at the back of my brain begin to pipe up, hissing _mutt…mutt…mutt, _I see flashes of Katniss laying waste to district 12, of her pushing me into water, trying to drown me, of her-

"NO!" I should, smashing my fist into the wall, the pain of the impact silencing the mutterings momentarily. I blink, the world is turning shiny. My brain feels like it's about to explode. The mutterings are getting louder.

_She hates you._

_She killed your unborn child, that's why she left._

_She killed your family, and all your friends, that's why she left._

_She hates you, that's why she left._

_She's a mutt._

_She ran away so you wouldn't find out._

_She's a liar. She's a mutt._

_Mutt. MUTT._

"NO. IT'S A LIE. IT'S NOT REAL!" I bellow into the empty apartment, smashing my head back against the wall with such force that I feel the earth around me spinning and I need to blink a couple of times until everything rights itself. I take deep breaths, just like Dr Aurelius taught me, and remember the stages of my coping process.

Real or not real.

I am Peeta Mellark, that's real. I came from district 12, that's real too. I live in district 2 now, real.

I used to love Katniss Everdeen, real.

Katniss Everdeen killed my…no, not real. Not real.

My breathing has calmed down, I feel suddenly uncomfortable sitting on the floor like this, and the back of my head hurts. I can't do this, this will kill me.

I pull myself upright and drag my feet into my bedroom, pulling my tablet from under the pillow next to mine and I turn to my e-mails. I realise I don't have Katniss' e-mail address, but I do have the receptionists from when Tomas e-mailed me, perhaps she could pass on the message.

_Dear Sarah,_

_Please forgive my unexpected e-mail._

_I am the consultant advising on the PODSII project – we met this morning when I had a meeting with Ms Everdeen._

_Could you please tell Ms Everdeen that I will unfortunately not be returning to work in this capacity, as…as…_

"…as…oh, it's no use," I mutter in frustration, throwing the tablet down on the duvet and sinking back with my palms digging in to my closed eyes, groaning angrily.

As much as I want to leave I know this is such a great opportunity. I would be a fool to waste it.

But then would I be able to work under these conditions? It would be torturous. I've already had a hijacking threaten to steal me, I can still feel the tracker jacker venom burning through my veins, surely that can only get worse if I carry on doing this.

I blink at the ceiling as various pro- and con-arguments race around my head, bashing into my skull and each other like out of control bumper cars.

I sit and pick up my tablet, erasing the drafted e-mail to start over.

_Dear Tomas,_

_After a very productive meeting with Ms Everdeen this morning I am very much excited to be working with you on this project, I feel that there's a great deal I can contribute here and I am looking forward to be part of such a dynamic, forward-thinking team effort._

_I hope you're enjoying your annual leave and I will see you when you return next week._

_Kind Regards,_

_Peeta Mellark._

I hit send and open up a new e-mail.

_Dear Sarah,_

_Please could you pass on a message to Ms Everdeen on my behalf, as I do not have her e-mail address._

_Please could you let her know that I will not be in the office again until next week as discussed but I will be available via e-mail should she have anything that she requires my input on. Also could you please pass on that it was lovely to meet with her today, that I am looking forward to working on this study and my warmest wishes._

_Kind Regards,_

_Peeta Mellark._

I hesitate before I press send. Pressing the button feels almost cathartic, letting go, moving on.

Because I don't think I ever really did.


End file.
